


Rocket Piece

by Thene



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen, Masturbation, Peace Walker, loli fakeout, using canon props for kink purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thene/pseuds/Thene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For MGS_Kink: Paz masturbating with Zadornov's prosthetic hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocket Piece

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Peace Walker.

She never smokes. If someone finds it in her bunk, she will have a lot of explaining to do. A sad expression might help, and an explanation of her need for a memento of a man who she thought she could trust above all. She was _so heartbroken_ about what had happened, and she wanted to keep a piece of the Galvez she had known, teacher and protector, near to her to remind her that there was good as well as evil in the hearts of all men. Yes, that would do it.

She sits cross-legged at the edge of her narrow bed. The hand is placed on the folds of her skirt, forked fingers extended, and she feels a little prickle of heat emanating from its thumb. Big Boss took a light from it not so long ago. She takes it in her own hand - hers is so dainty in comparison - and raises it to her lips. She smells lighter fluid, gun oil, shades of tobacco and gunpowder.

She kisses the fingertips one after another, collecting its strange metallic tastes on the end of her tongue. A lover's touch, but so inhuman. Her clipped nails click against the back of the hand. It almost makes her feel like a real young girl. She entwines its fingers with her own. This, she tells herself, is what love feels like to a lifelong spy.

She manoeuvres the prosthetic knuckles into the shape of a cradling caress, and sets the hand against her neck. She runs it downwards, feeling the trail it leaves, wet echoes of her own kisses passed back from the metal to her skin. A tilt of her grip and it slips inside her collar. It's cold, excitingly so.

It cannot do everything a human hand can do, so she loosens her necktie and unbuttons her shirt herself. She unzips her skirt too, and lifts it up with the hand, looking down at herself as she runs it playfully up her thigh. Then she runs it down her chest - she's moved the fingers again, because she wants them to paw her through her clothes as if they want her. She takes a pinched fold of her shirt, and puts it between two of its crossed fingers.

She has to stop to undress properly, down to silk and lace. It's hot inside Mother Base. She doesn't miss her disguise; by choice, she'd not wear such a thing. She lies on her back and touches her breasts with the hand, stroking back and forth from one nipple to the other, the touch ghostly soft-and-cold when it crosses her cleavage. She traps its fingertips there and puts the palm of her warm hand over the back of the cold metal one, pushing it hard against herself. She wants to feel its mechanical pressure against her. She makes a sound, a low and quiet _oh_.

She kisses it more fiercely. Her own sweat is now one of its many tastes. She holds it by the wrist and sets its fingertips between her thighs, playing it up and down that crevice until it meets cloth. Her legs part. She'd say _yes_ to this hand, maybe even out loud. It's detached, a machine, only made for one purpose, but quite capable of others. It's dangerous. She trusts it because it's like her. She reaches down and parts two of its fingers - a victorious _v_ \- and strokes herself through warm, dampened cloth. Slowly, and then fast from side-to-side. She pauses, hot and needy-frustrated, and pulls down her panties, leaving them caught around her knees. Some adjustment - one finger curled, two others crooked - and her hand returns to action. She gasps, because it's cold, those two fingers inside her, but she clenches around them hungrily, still rubbing the nub of her sex against a curled steel knuckle. Her eyes close. She doesn't see anything except the sea, washing her from east to west. She breathes like she's trying to swim the ocean. She rides her hand, barely moving.

She comes hard and finds the touch is unforgiving, pleasure turning in an instant to something raw and hurtful.

She throbs, for a while. The discarded hand is vilely sticky. She wishes she had a cigarette. Two cigarettes. She could light them with the hand, smoke one, and set the other between its fingers. Perhaps her careless hand would drop a spark on to her pillows, and burn them both alive.


End file.
